


blood red jam

by figure8



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Actor Lee Seokmin | DK, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Mob, Courtship, Dark, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, this is a very relevant tag i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-09 04:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: “Seokmin,” Joshua says very, very quietly. Seokmin stares at him. The expression on Joshua’s face is somewhere between disbelief and horror. “Everyoneknows Dragon Inc. is a front for the Triad.”—Seokmin is a rising Hollywood star. Minghao is... a businessman. Or something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earthshaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/gifts).



> i guess mob boss minghao is my brand now???
> 
> this minghao acts like someone who has indecent amounts of money to burn, and all the entitlement and frankly, creepiness, that this entails. that’s the main warning for this fic, but i have no idea how to tag for it?? i feel like “dark” encompasses it but it’s not precise enough. this chapter is _very_ tame but i want you guys to know what you’re getting into.  
> i didn’t tag this as “angst with a happy ending” because that’s not exactly the... mood? of the story? but i can assure you that neither minghao or seokmin die?? that’s about it. other people very much do uh, die. murder! it happens! but like. in the name of love!  
> [op has scared away all potential readership] 
> 
> i’m super excited but also apprehensive about this fic t___t if you’re still here, hope you enjoy!! <3 
> 
> and as per usual, here’s a [playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/7zaFBek8AwZ3tvxyMfxHXw?si=WF6inHHWR4CLJgAmx5wHYQ)

_My old man is a bad man_  
_But I can't deny the way he holds my hand_  
_And he grabs me, he has me by my heart_

 

Being watched feels the same no matter where you’re standing, no matter how you’re dressed. On stage, in his high school’s production of _Little Shop of Horrors,_ behind the counter serving drinks, and finally on the red carpet, walking down blinded by the flashes and dizzy from the screams; being watched remains being watched. It means having to stand straighter, carefully. It means rearranging his suit, paying attention to the way he holds his glass of Whiskey. It is—unnerving, in a way it shouldn’t be, because Seokmin should be used to it, by now. After all, and entirely willingly, _being watched_ is his job now. People literally paid money to enter the movie theater and _watch him_ pretend to be someone else for two hours and ten minutes. If they knew he does that all the time for free, they could have saved themselves 13 dollars and forty cents.

 

The man with his eyes on Seokmin is wearing a charcoal suit, silk, white shirt open too low, no tie. He looks like he could be in the business, but Seokmin would know if he was. He’s a newbie, but he’s a newbie with a dream; he has memorized every face, every name that matters. The guy isn’t a colleague, and he isn’t a producer, but he’s in the VIP corner with them, so he has to be somewhat important, rich enough, or at least well-connected. A model, maybe? He sure looks the part. Then again, he has this aura, like he’d never let anyone give him any sort of directions, and Seokmin knows from his week-long stint as an underwear model for catalogues that you need to be _very_ good at following orders to make it. It shouldn’t matter, really, who that guy is, except it kind of does, because Seokmin’s back is _burning_ from how heavy his gaze is, and Seokmin can’t remember anyone wanting him so blatantly in years. College, maybe, freshman year, before he dropped out of NYU—when it didn’t mean anything, liking boys. When it was something he could do, something he could be, something that only had small, personal consequences. Seokmin laughs shallowly at what the girl on his right is saying, because it feels like an appropriate moment to do so, and tries his best to ignore the fact his suit jacket feels like it’s been set on _fire._ Maybe the stranger has actual magic powers. Maybe Seokmin is actually in the process of being cursed.

 

It takes the man exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes to slither in and claim the stool on Seokmin’s left. He does so casually, light on his feet, throws Seokmin a disarming smile, the kind that comes with money—or power, or both. Seokmin knows because he spent years wiping down counters assholes spilled their drinks on while wearing that sort of smile.

He signals the barman, two fingers up, motions to Seokmin with a small head movement, subtle. When a new glass of Whiskey is deposited in front of Seokmin, it’s top shelf, not the crap he still drinks by force of habit even now that he can afford the nice stuff.

There is a ritual, to these things. Accept the drink, and you owe the other person your time, at least. A few words. It is a tacit understanding. So when Seokmin takes a sip, it’s to taste, but it’s also because he’s curious. The Whiskey goes down smooth. The stranger’s voice, too, is smooth like good liquor, when he asks for Seokmin’s name. In return, Seokmin just gets _Minghao,_ no last name, no occupation. He wants to prod, but it’s hard to when Minghao’s eyes are still as intense as they were earlier, when Seokmin had his back to him. The alcohol, too, is making it hard; making the world spin lightly, pleasantly, like a carousel ride. Joshua’s hand comes to curl around Seokmin’s forearm unexpectedly, brutally dragging him out of his bubble. He turns to look at his manager, confused, and Joshua rolls his eyes.

“You have an early day tomorrow,” Josh says. On Seokmin’s left, Minghao leans in, interested, a little like a cat who heard an unusual noise. Joshua just stares at him blankly.

“I have to go,” Seokmin grimaces apologetically.

“Duty calls,” Minghao nods, amused, although Seokmin isn’t exactly sure why. Joshua has already turned around, probably headed for the coat check, so he pushes himself off his stool, one hand already on the middle button of his jacket, ready to fix it. “I’ll see you around,” Minghao says, and before Seokmin can ask him for anything, he has slipped a business card into Seokmin’s breast pocket. It’s an inexplicably hot move.

In the car, he reaches for it, examines it carefully, as if it can bite. Cream-colored paper, minimalist script, _Xu Minghao, Dragon Inc., Founder and CEO,_ and then a phone number, and an address. When he googles the company, he gets a few dozen hits about import-export. It sounds boring, but it also sounds _lucrative._ On Google Images, a picture of the headquarters shows a tall building made out of glass and metal. Seokmin tucks the card back into his pocket.

 

:::

 

There are two dozen red roses waiting for him the next morning in his trailer. Tied to the bouquet, a folded card made of the same thick beige paper, same black lettering. It spells _Have a wonderful day,_ in Hangul, no signature. It’s a little presumptuous, maybe offensive, that Xu Minghao expected him to know how to speak Korean. Or maybe it’s scary. Seokmin isn’t quite sure yet. He asks someone to put the flowers in water before heading to the set. They’re shooting a kissing scene today, and there are a few things only that Seokmin wants to be doing less than kiss a woman fourteen times in a row under the scrutinizing gazes of a hundred people.

At the end of the day, Seokmin is exhausted, his lips feel raw, his heat-proof makeup is suffocating him, and all he wants is to go back to his apartment and faceplant directly into his bed. The director makes him watch take #3 and #11 twice before he lets him go, and by the time he makes it back to his trailer, he’s ready to strangle anyone who talks to him.

Xu Minghao looks simultaneously out of place and like he belongs there, leaning against the door of Seokmin’s trailer. Seokmin doesn’t know how he does it.

The first thing he says is “I hope the flowers were to your taste,” no greeting. He’s smirking, too, and his body is all nonchalant lines, deliberately relaxed. Seokmin doesn’t like how attractive it makes him.

“Well, hi,” he tells Minghao, looking him dead in the eye. “My day was absolutely awful, thanks for asking. How about yours?”

Minghao’s deadly grin just grows bigger. “Oh, he bites. I like that.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “Great. Now can you move aside? I need to get in. You’re blocking the door.”

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” Minghao says. He does not move.

Seokmin splutters. “Excuse me?”

“Dinner,” Minghao repeats. “Urasawa. We have a reservation in about an hour and a half.”

It is such an outlandish situation to be in Seokmin genuinely doesn’t know what to do. Which is how he ends up saying “It takes months to get a spot at Urasawa, did you just get dumped? Are you inviting me because you need someone to come with you?” instead of, well, anything else, really.

Minghao seems _endlessly_ amused. “I’m friends with the Chef. I called this morning. I very much want to take _you_ to dinner, Seokmin.”

Seokmin squints. “Is this a date?”

“Do you want it to be a date?”

What he wants, really, is for Minghao to turn around and leave, so that Seokmin can finally grab his stuff and go back home. But Urasawa is the second most expensive restaurant in the world. It has ten tables. No matter the contacts one has, getting a reservation in a day sounds like it would take more than just a phone call to an old friend. And Seokmin is curious. If a man is ready to call in favors like that and burn a thousand dollars on sushi for him, he wants to understand why.

And, maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of him that likes the attention. Revels in it. Like an adrenaline rush, but a longer high, the effect lasting for as long as Minghao keeps his gaze on him.

“It’s not a date,” he tells Minghao. “And I need to shower, and put on a suit.”

“My driver will take you to your apartment. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

He sounds entirely too smug. Seokmin finds himself imagining ways to wipe the satisfaction off his face. Most of them are definitely not rated PG-13. The back of his neck feels hot—he knows he blushes there, before the pink travels to his cheeks.

The car is large, comfortable; beige padded leather seats, a faint smell of tobacco. But Seokmin is used to this level of luxury at least by now, has seen his fair share of limousines with crystal Champagne flutes and fur lining. The driver remains silent for the entirety of the ride, only opens his mouth to indicate to Seokmin that they have arrived.

It’s only when he’s stepped inside his shower that Seokmin realizes he never gave the man his address.

 

:::

 

Minghao is wearing a burgundy silk suit, the jacket opened, a thin salmon cashmere sweater under. The contrast makes his skin look golden, especially bathed in the Californian sunset.

“You’re right on time,” he says when he sees Seokmin. His tone is like a teacher’s—there’s an edge of condescension to it, but Seokmin isn’t sure if his own insecure brain placed it there. The watch on his wrist is a Piaget.

Seokmin flashes him his best camera-ready grin. “I’m always on time.” The way Minghao’s eyes slant at that, two furtive half crescents; it makes him look like a cat, but a savage one, the type that hides in bushes and hisses at humans who try to feed or pet it.

In the car, they make small talk, but the real conversation is wordless. Minghao studies him intently, dark irises mapping out Seokmin’s features as Seokmin speaks, staying on his moving lips just long enough to make him shiver, but not long enough to be _outwardly_ sleazy.

Minghao flirts like it’s an inconsequential game, and perhaps to him it is; he looks like the type of man who gets what he wants no matter what. He puts his hand on the small of Seokmin’s back as he guides him into the restaurant, opens all the doors for him, _keeps_ his hand there when he talks to the hostess and only removes it when they have to sit.

The food is out of this world. Seokmin is conscious of the way Minghao is watching him eat, so maybe he amps up his reactions a little bit, but only barely—the fish truly is moan-worthy. He raises a bite of snow crab to his mouth, holds Minghao’s gaze as he closes his lips around his own fingers. Minghao’s Adam’s Apple bobs when he swallows dryly.

It’s easy, becoming someone else. It has always come so _easily_ to Seokmin he used to believe he was cheating, with this job. But acting, as a profession, it’s hard work. There are lines to memorize and messages to convey—it goes much further than putting on someone’s personality like a costume. Every director has a vision, and actors are mere pawns. Seokmin has learned how to mold himself to their dreams, how to turn their words into images.

But playing a role, undirected, _that’s_ easy. Putting on a mask for his own benefit, stepping into someone else’s shoes for the evening, that had always been Seokmin’s _talent._ Tonight he’s the type of man that Xu Minghao wants to take home with him. He decided that somewhere between the amaebi and his second serving of saké. Lee Seokmin doesn’t fuck on the first date, but DK Lee does, probably. Seokmin doesn’t quite know yet. This is a test run.

Joshua had asked him, once. _This is L.A. This is Hollywood. You can be whoever you want here. What’s it gonna be?_

He didn’t have an answer then.

 

:::

 

“I had fun,” Seokmin says outside Urasawa, the cool evening breeze pleasant on his skin, mussing his hair up like an affectionate caress. They’re waiting for Minghao’s chauffeur to bring the Bentley around.

“I’m glad you did.” Minghao’s smirk is wolfish. “Is this still not a date?”

“Depends,” Seokmin smiles in return, despite himself. Minghao takes a step forward towards him. “What do I get out of it?”

“If this was a date I would drive you back to my place,” Minghao says, voice low. He’s close enough now that Seokmin can feel his breath on his face, smell it. He popped a mint somewhere between their table and the restaurant’s exit. Stealthy. “I live on the 23rd floor. The view is magnificent.”

Seokmin quirks an eyebrow. “Just the view?”

“The view is quite satisfying from where I’m standing here as well,” Minghao says, unperturbed. Heat spreads across Seokmin’s cheeks. He gives himself a mental slap. _Get it together._

He’s proud of how steady his voice comes out when he retorts, “If I want to admire the L.A. skyline, I can go to the Ritz.”

The car is here. Minghao doesn’t spare it a glance. He puts his hand on Seokmin’s chest, his palm burning even through two layers of fabric. He’s so attractive it’s dizzying.

“Not in public,” Seokmin grits.

“Ah,” Minghao nods, removing his hand very, very slowly, fingers trailing down the front of Seokmin’ suit. “Of course.”

He signals his driver and in a blink the man is holding the backseat door open for Seokmin. Behind the tinted windows it’s a little easier to breathe, but barely.

“Let me take you home, Seokmin,” Minghao asks. _Asks,_ really. Pleading, hungry.

It’s only going to happen once, right? This type of thing only ever happens once. This is the lifestyle he was promised, after all. Flashes and red carpets and gorgeous people and _sex._

“Okay,” he says. He’s been yielding to Minghao all day long. “Okay.”

 

:::

 

The lobby is spotless. Neoclassical, white columns and lustre chandeliers, marble and gold. Not necessarily Seokmin’s cup of tea—he has always preferred his decor colorful—but it is simultaneously extravagant and classy, and extremely _Minghao,_ whatever _that_ means.

“Good evening, Mr. Xu,” The doorman smiles politely when they pass him by. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you,” Minghao says. “Please make sure no one disturbs us tonight.” His hand has found its way back to Seokmin’s lower back. It’s hard to focus on anything else but his touch there, especially with a witness. He knows, objectively, that everyone who has seen them interact tonight has _discreet_ in their job description. But some anxieties are more resilient than others.

The elevator ride to the 23rd floor is tense in the way all elevator rides are when they are shared by two people who intend to sleep together. Seokmin is suddenly hyper-aware of his own body—the rise and fall of his chest with each inhalation, the electricity sparkling along his veins, concentrated in his fingertips, his toes. Desire concretizing, taking shape. Minghao is undressing him with his eyes, standing at a chivalrous distance. There is no small talk. The air is thick with meaning.

When the elevator dings, Seokmin almost jumps out of his own skin.

It’s a penthouse apartment, so there is no hallway to roam—they enter directly into Minghao’s living room. The view _is_ splendid. The side of the building facing the city is all glass, no wall. At night everything outside is dark blue, spots of bright yellow and orange and red dancing in the horizon.

“You weren’t lying,” Seokmin whistles, his feet carrying him to the window almost by themselves. The sight truly is mesmerizing.

“I never do,” Minghao smiles. “Can I serve you something to drink?”

Seokmin shakes his head. “I don’t—I prefer being sober.”

He’s a lightweight, if he’s being honest. The saké they had with their dinner already has him feeling pleasantly buzzed. Minghao grabs a bottle of red from the impressive bar set up in the left corner of the room.

“Do you mind if I do?” Seokmin shakes his head no again. “This is a Chambertin,” Minghao continues, swirling the blood-like liquid in his glass with an expert twirl of his wrist. “ _Côte de Nuits._ Are you sure you don’t want a sip?”

“Positive,” Seokmin says. “I’m not a fan of wine.”

“Aw,” Minghao tilts his head to the right, “That’s a pity. We’ll have to remedy to that.”

The promise in Minghao’s words crashes over him like a wave, overpowering. But talk is easy, Seokmin reasons. Talk means nothing in the end.

“Is this still not a date, Seokmin-ah?” Minghao asks in Korean this time, watching him over the rim of his glass.

“Now that’s just showing off,” Seokmin replies in English, but the corners of his mouth rise to form a small smile. Minghao sets his almost empty glass on the coffee table. “It’s still not a date,” Seokmin says in his mother’s language. He’s rusty—only ever speaks it on the phone anymore. But it’s his native tongue. It can never be forgotten. “You still haven’t made it worth my while.”

Which is how he finds himself pressed up against the tempered glass, Minghao’s grip gentle but firm around his wrists, holding them above Seokmin’s head. His blazer is somewhere on the ground. At his back the city is buzzing. It’s way too high for anyone to see them, but the openness of the setting still gets to Seokmin’s head, heart thumping furiously inside his ribcage.

Minghao kisses him the way Seokmin imagines he also goes through contracts; thoroughly, demanding, self-assured. His mouth tastes like cherry and spice, and for a fraction of a second Seokmin thinks maybe _this_ wine isn’t that bad after all. Then Minghao slots a thigh between Seokmin’s legs and his brain stops functioning correctly. He cants his hips up to seek more friction, but Minghao’s free hand finds his waist and holds him steady there too.

“Please,” Seokmin whines when they break apart, panting. Minghao kisses the corner of his mouth, soft, a startling contrast.

“What do you want, baby? Tell me what you like.”

He still has Seokmin’s wrists pinned against the window. Seokmin’s starting to feel the strain in his forearms, but it’s a good ache, anchoring him to reality. _Tell me what you like._

Seokmin likes many things. Most of them aren’t appropriate for a one-night stand with a stranger.

“You can fuck me,” he tells Minghao, turning his face to the side, baring his throat in a way he knows is enticing. Minghao falls for it immediately, nips at the sensitive skin there, causing Seokmin to moan. God, Hair and Makeup are going to hate him tomorrow.

“I _can_ do that,” Minghao grins against his neck. “Come on,” he tugs at Seokmin’s sleeve, finally releasing him, “Bedroom’s this way.”

“You don’t want to fuck me here?” Seokmin teases.

“No,” Minghao says. “You deserve a bed.”

Seokmin’s stomach twists. He can’t put a name on the emotion he’s feeling and it’s bothering him.

They kiss on their way to the bedroom, knocking into things, blindly unfastening their clothes. By the time they make it to the door Seokmin is shirtless, beltless, and his pants are unzipped.

“Beautiful,” Minghao murmurs in the tone of an art critic in front of a canvas, running his palms flat over Seokmin’s pectorals as he flexes. Seokmin blushes.

“You think?”

And that’s all him. No role, all pretense stripped. It slipped out, sneaked through his defenses. He forgot where he was for a second, he thinks. Minghao is intoxicating like that. This is _exactly_ why he didn’t want to drink.

“I know,” Minghao says. He plants a kiss to Seokmin’s collarbone, then right above his heart, then lower, and lower, until he has to kneel in order to retrace the lines of Seokmin’s faintly defined abs with his tongue. _God bless pre-filming bootcamp,_ Seokmin thinks absently.

Then Minghao’s face is pressed to his crotch, mouthing wetly at him through the cotton of his underwear, and Seokmin whimpers, fingers tangling in Minghao’s hair to bring him closer, keep him right there.  

“Want you so bad,” Minghao says, breath hot, “Since I first laid eyes on you. You’re so fucking pretty, Seokmin, I knew I had to have you.”

Seokmin pulls him up so they can kiss again, open-mouthed and filthy, _hungry._ “I’m right here,” he says, fingers sliding under Minghao’s cashmere sweater. Minghao only lets him go long enough to pull it over his head and throw it behind him. “You have me right here. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Get undressed,” Minghao orders, voice thick with arousal. He’s hard in his slacks. Seokmin wants to touch him there, grind his palm against his erection, get him off just like that. Instead he flutters his eyelashes to get rid of that particular visual and shucks down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. He steps out of them, toeing off his socks in the process too, and then he’s totally naked in the middle of Minghao’s bedroom, Minghao’s for the taking.

Minghao says _get on the bed,_ and he does. Minghao says _spread your legs for me,_ and he does. Minghao says _stop holding it in,_ two fingers knuckle-deep in Seokmin, _I wanna hear you,_ and Seokmin unlocks his jaw, lets his mouth part, lets the gasps and curses trickle out like coins from a slot machine.

Minghao fingers him open methodically, longer than necessary—good and unyielding and _never enough,_ until Seokmin’s splayed legs are shaking and the only word left in his vocabulary is a shattered version of _please._

He hears more than he sees Minghao unbuckle his belt. There are tears at the corner of his eyes, and he doesn’t want to raise his head from where it’s resting on the mattress, so he relies on sounds to recreate the image—the metallic _clunk_ of the buckle, the soft _pop_ that means Minghao just unbuttoned his pants, then the rustle of fabric when he pushes them down to his thighs. And then the crackling of foil, the characteristic snap of the bottle of lube being uncapped, the squelching noise when Minghao squeezes some more into his palm, and finally, his satisfied little grunt as he takes himself in hand.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he tells Seokmin, positioning himself between his legs at the edge of the bed. “Is that what you want, baby?”

“Yes,” Seokmin hisses as the tip of Minghao’s cock circles his rim. “Yes—”

Minghao slides inside him slowly, inch by inch, giving him the time to get used to the intrusion. For this Seokmin does prop himself up on his elbows, just so he can stare at Minghao’s face, drink in his focused expression as he regains control, forces himself to stay still. His hands come to rest on Seokmin’s hipbones, thumbs rubbing soothing circles.

“You can move,” Seokmin breathes out. Minghao pulls him as close as humanly possible, bottoms out. For a few seconds he cannot seem to tear his gaze away from where his cock disappears into Seokmin’s body, enraptured. Then he snaps out of his haze, picks up a steady rhythm that has Seokmin scrambling for purchase, fingers clutching at the bedding.

He’s not a vocal lover, which Seokmin figured he wouldn’t be anyway, but he’s _communicative,_ and _that_ is a surprise. He doesn’t just take—he asks, and he makes sure.

_Like that, baby? Is it good? What do you want? Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need._

And Seokmin is worried sometimes, that he is—needy. Demanding. Not worth the trouble.

But in this bed it feels okay to ask for things. _Fuck me faster. Fuck me harder. Hold me down. Hold me._

“Turn around, baby,” Minghao tells him, pulling out completely. Seokmin blinks, confused and already missing him inside. “Face down,” Minghao clarifies, “Ass up.”

And oh, _oh,_ the angle is different like this. And Minghao can push down on his nape in this position, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to keep him there. Seokmin’s fingers twist in the white sheets, desperate broken sounds spilling out of his mouth as Minghao plows into him.

“Fuck,” he cries out, “Fuck, can you—please touch me. Almost there.”

Minghao covers his back with his body to speak directly above Seokmin’s ear. “Can you come like this? Just from my cock?”

“No,” Seokmin pants. “I’ve never— _please.”_

“Next time,” Minghao promises, placing a kiss to his shoulder blade, and then he wraps his hand around Seokmin’s throbbing length. The relief is so intense he could _cry._ “Come for me, baby,” Minghao whispers, honey-sweet. “I’m close too, you feel so good.”

It’s the last sentence that does him in. _You feel so good,_ Minghao panting harshly, voice low. _You did this._ Seokmin spills into Minghao’s hand, on the sheets, on his own belly. Minghao fucks him through his orgasm, milks him dry, until Seokmin pushes his hand away, trembling. When he collapses back on the mattress Minghao snaps his hips ruthlessly one, two, three times until he’s coming too, biting a curse into Seokmin’s skin, at the junction of his neck. He mumbles something in a language Seokmin doesn’t understand and is too fucked-out to identify.

He’s in the liminal space between consciousness and sleep when Minghao pulls out and pushes himself off the bed. He doesn’t pass out right after sex, normally, but he’s been so tired lately that it’s not surprising that he would drift off. Blinking, he forces himself awake. Minghao comes back with a wet cloth and wipes the drying come around Seokmin’s navel.

“Thank you,” Seokmin mutters.

“Of course,” Minghao says. His tone is indecipherable. Still like a lake. Warmer than it has any right to be.

Seokmin rolls to his side. “Should I go now?” Minghao’s fingers dance along his jawline before cupping his cheek.

“Do you want to leave?”

Seokmin turns into his hand, kisses the center of his palm. This, after the act, it’s his favorite type of intimacy. “No. I have to be on set early but I can catch an Uber in the morning.”

“Don’t be silly,” Minghao rolls his eyes. “Mingyu will drive you.”

“Okay,” Seokmin says, scooting closer. “Are you coming back to bed?”

“I’m going to get some water. Then yes.”

Left alone in the room, he stares at the ceiling. Thinks of this stupid romantic comedy he’s filming, how Joshua promised this was the movie that would turn him into a Hollywood heartthrob. Representation is in, or something. _You can be the Noah Centineo of Korean-Americans,_ his agent had grinned. _You’re gonna get all the ladies, trust me._

“What are you doing, Lee Seokmin?” Seokmin groans out loud, dragging a hand down his face.

The ceiling, unsurprisingly, remains unresponsive.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, life has been continuously hectic.   
> enjoy <3

_In the land of gods and monsters_   
_I was an angel, looking to get fucked hard_   
_Like a groupie incognito, posing as a real singer_ _  
Life imitates art_

 

Despite the many times Minghao hinted he wouldn’t mind a repeat performance of their night together, Seokmin is still surprised when he receives another bouquet the next day. White roses this time, two dozen again, _Thank you_ in Chinese characters on the card. The ribbon tied around the stems is red silk.

“Some guy driving a Lambo dropped these off,” Joshua tells him offhandedly during Seokmin’s third makeup touch-up of the morning, eyes glued to his iPhone. “Something you wanna tell me?”

Seokmin chokes on his herbal tisane. “Who are you?” he coughs, and not even that gets Joshua to raise his gaze from his phone, “My mom?”

“Worse, honey. I’m the guy who _needs_ to know if we’re going to have to pay _People_ to keep your name out of their filthy pages. You can lie to your mother if you want, Seokmin,” and here he takes the time to stare directly at him, “But you cannot lie to me.”

“I cannot lie to my mother, actually,” Seokmin chuckles. “She knows all my tells.”

“You’re all set,” the make-up artist smiles. She’s _so_ pretty, very Californian, all wavy blond hair and deep blue eyes and ocean smell. Seokmin doesn’t really know what to do with himself around beautiful women. The fact he doesn’t want to sleep with them does not apparently affect how absolutely tantalizing their existence seems to be.

“Thanks,” he croaks out.

“See,” Joshua points a ballpoint pen in his direction, “This right here! This is exactly why I was led to believe you were straight all this time.”

Seokmin frowns. “Sorry?”

“I don’t care where you stick your dick as long as I don’t have to deal with the consequences, Seokmin,” Joshua rolls his eyes. “So, do you have something you wanna share with the class?”

Seokmin considers the facts. He had a good time with Minghao. Delicious food, mind-blowing sex. “No,” he shakes his head after a minute. “It was a one-time thing.”

His manager smiles. “Fantastic. Now I gotta run, babe. I’ll see you,” he gestures vaguely, “Around. So many stars to make, so little time.”

And then he’s gone, blink of an eye, _whoosh._

Joshua has always been like this. He plucked Seokmin out of a seedy bar in New York City, sunglasses on at two in the morning indoors. Seokmin remembers thinking _what a clown_ and then swallowing down all mockery when Joshua had started talking, words coming out faster than bullet casings trickling out of a machine gun. Joshua had seen him at the community theater, tracked him down to his second job. _Take my card. I know this sounds shady, but google me._

At the time Seokmin’s endgame was still Broadway. He had stared at Joshua Hong’s website for hours, hand trembling on the trackpad of his old battered MacBook, reading through lists of names. Hollywood, then, was nothing but a looming monster—the shadow of a dream. Anyone who’s ever been under stage lights _thinks_ about L.A.

From within the belly of the beast, things are a little different. In Queens life was harsh but it was colorful. Here Seokmin only eats ramen in expensive restaurants but always alone. His apartment is beautiful and empty. Rent is always paid on time and the landline never rings. Awake sometimes closer to dusk than dawn, he allows himself some forbidden thoughts he would never verbalize at any other hour. It’s easy to long for simpler times on a full stomach.

 

: : :

 

His cell phone lights up a few days later, _number unknown,_ just as he’s getting ready to leave his flat for a photoshoot. Sticking the mobile between his cheek and his shoulder, Seokmin shuts the door by kicking it softly.

“Hi?”

“Seokmin,” Minghao’s smooth voice travels through the receiver. “It’s me.”

 _It’s me._ Presumptuous. Like Seokmin is just supposed to know, recognize him through the color of his words alone.

He does.

The thing is, society has taught him arrogance should be met with disdain. Seokmin’s _mother_ has told him exactly how this _It’s me_ should be dealt with—a swift _Who?,_ a gentle let-down. Set your boundaries. Build your walls.

The thing is, Seokmin was hoping Minghao would call.

“Hey,” he smiles against his phone screen.

Minghao keeps him on the line all the way to his shoot. Seokmin jumps into his Uber and forgets to greet the driver, too busy overthinking his every sentence.

“I wanted to thank you for the flowers,” he says, “But I didn’t have a phone number to call, or—”

“Now you do,” Minghao says. Seokmin can hear his smirk.

“I don’t, actually, there was no caller ID.”

“I know,” Minghao says. The phone vibrates in Seokmin’s hand. He quickly takes it away from his ear. The text he just received soberly reads _XMH._

The car stops. “I have to go,” Seokmin tells him. “Work.”

He’s still hearing Minghao’s voice and his goodbye when he walks into the building, coming from far away, mystic echo. It’s been a while since he’s wanted someone this way, with this kind of all-consuming, overpowering might. When he shuts his eyes he sees their bodies intertwined, skin on skin. The image doesn’t want to leave.

But his life is a flutter, a whirlwind of sounds and lights in rapid staccato, with almost no downtime to breathe. For that he is grateful, in some way. It is easier to let go, like this, of the beginning of obsession. He knows how he gets when he has a crush—although he grimaces at the idea of calling it that.

The photographer puts him in a bright red suit, no shirt, no shoes. It’s a magazine spread, editorial couture. They make him lie down on a white plastic cube and sprinkle red rose petals around him. It’s all very pretentious. Joshua will love it. Seokmin’s mother will leave him a long voicemail about it, he can already tell. He smiles at the thought. He needs to fly her in soon, he misses her. Misses her cooking too, if he’s being honest, even if he can order Korean food anytime he wants now. There’s nothing quite like a homemade meal from your mama.

“DK,” the photographer directs him, “The smolder. Give me the _smolder._ Someone, lights.” He snaps his fingers. “We need more light on his face, people. Quick!”

Seokmin isn’t sure what exactly _the smolder_ is supposed to be, but he gives the camera his sexiest look, the one he offers his female co-stars—the one that’s fake but believable, a flicker of the real him somewhere in there. It seems to work, because the camera clicks a few dozen times and then he’s instructed to change into the next outfit.

It’s already dark out when he finally gets to go home. The ride back is quiet, colorless. Seokmin keeps staring at his phone which remains stubbornly silent, sleeping. The driver puts on music at some point, the radio playing the Top 100 on loop, background noise.

Back inside his apartment, it takes Seokmin approximately ten minutes staring at his fully stocked fridge to slam it shut and pull up the Postmates app. Maybe thinking about his mother earlier activated the always dormant homesickness in him, he wonders while scrolling through the _Korean_ tab. The app suggests no less than seven Japanese restaurants to him before he finds what he’s looking for. There is a joke about colonialism in there somewhere, he’s sure. When the food arrives, it’s good, but it doesn’t soothe the slow ache in his chest, right above his diaphragm he had hoped was a side effect of hunger. He sighs and reaches for his phone again.

His mother picks up after the third ring.

“Hey, mama,” he smiles, heart tender. She calls him _my baby._ Her voice is like crystal, the breeze through wind chimes, excited and joyful and always making itself known. He can read her like the inside of his palm. She knows him like the rooms of her childhood home.

“You don’t usually call on weekdays,” she says, just an edge of concern to it.

“I missed you,” he frowns, chuckles into the receiver. “Nothing going on, I just missed you.”

“How’s my Seokmin?” she presses. “Are you eating well? You have these weird hours, I worry about you.”

“Ma,” he huffs, “I can facetime you, there’s empty containers in front of me right this second.”

She switches to Korean to scold him. “I taught you how to cook, Lee Seokmin. Have you ever even used the pretty kitchen in that new apartment of yours?”

“I have!” he protests, still in English. “Mama, it’s just been a long day. I swear I’m not eating garbage, cross my heart.”

There is a beat of silence. He hears the way her breath shifts when she decides she believes him. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me about your day, then.”

He burrows himself further into the couch, starts recounting the shoot. She interrupts him about a dozen times in the first five minutes to tell him about stuff happening in their old neighborhood, and he lets her go on patiently every time. Her happy tone is like a warm blanket, and he wraps himself in it, brings his knees close to his chest. Like this he can close his eyes and imagine she’s in the room with him, gossiping about the neighbor’s cat. It’s a fantasy he allows himself to entertain, sometimes. She doesn’t want to move, and he wouldn’t ask her to—not when Los Angeles is how it is and Seokmin is almost never home for more than a waking hour at a time anyway. But it’s a nice dream—a tender dream. It’s their future, he hopes. One where they can be wherever she wants, close enough that he can just show up at her door instead of ordering not-quite-right Korean food on an application. This is what he’s working for. This is, ironically, why he left her.

 

: : :

 

He’s dining out with Joshua when Minghao calls him again. Joshua watches him turn his phone around, stare at the caller ID, then put the phone face down again twice before sighing loudly and gesturing _go ahead._ Seokmin grimaces apologetically and leaves the table.

“Hey,” he answers, blocking his other ear with his hand. The terrasse they’re on is extremely crowded and loud.

“I seem to keep catching you at inopportune moments,” Minghao says. “I apologize.”

“I’m sure you’re busy,” Seokmin reasons.

“I’d make the time.”

Seokmin blushes at that, cheeks on fire so fast, _embarrassed._ He read somewhere being gay robs you of teenage drama and you find yourself living stupidly intense romances in your late twenties because you couldn’t be careless and in love in high school. In high school Seokmin liked to tell himself which girl he had a crush on and then proceed to have eight panic attacks at once if ever they returned his feelings, so he supposes he agrees.

 _This_ feels horribly _teenagery,_ like he’s a blonde girl in a Netflix-produced romantic comedy laying upside down on her bright pink duvet speaking to the most popular guy in school through a telephone that still has a cord.

 _I’d make the time,_ voice all husky, who the hell does this guy think he is? Seokmin shakes himself out of his reverie out of pure spite.

“You’re a sweet talker, Xu Minghao.”

“You’re easy to talk sweet to,” Minghao counters, and okay, Seokmin will admit it, this one’s an easy K.O. too.

“Did you call for a reason or just to flirt? I _am_ out with people after all.”

“I do have something to ask,” Minghao says. “Are you free on Saturday evening?”

Seokmin squints. “It… depends?”

“A friend will be in town,” Minghao explains. “He’s one of the best wine producers in the region.”

“Okay?”

“You said you didn’t like wine. If you still don’t like wine after this, I’ll rest my case.”

“So this is like, a wine tasting.”

“Minus the annoying tourists, yes.”

Seokmin thinks about it. He _is_ free on Saturday evening. He _does_ want to see Minghao again. The whole wine thing is a little intimidating, but it’s also sort of cute that Minghao remembered. Seokmin likes the idea of personalized dates. Knowing that Minghao put thought into this, didn’t just book a table at another top rated restaurant to impress him. _That_ only works once.

“I’ll have to clear my schedule,” he says, because he figures it makes him sound important and not overeager—one stone, two birds.

“Of course,” Minghao says agreeably. “My apologies again for interrupting you. I don’t like texting, but I probably should have anyway.”

“It’s okay,” Seokmin says. “I understand. There’s something—about hearing someone’s voice.”

“Yes. You understand.” He can hear Minghao’s smile travel through his words. It throws him back to the very first night, at the club. There is no escaping a man this determined to get you, Seokmin decides. “Have a good night, Seokmin,” Minghao continues after a short pause. “Tell me if I should send a car on Saturday.”

 

“Was that the Lamborghini dude?” Joshua asks conversationally when Seokmin gets back to their table. He’s ordered a second Mojito in the few minutes Seokmin was gone.

Seokmin doubts Minghao hand-delivered those flowers, which means he doesn’t know _who_ the “Lamborghini dude” actually is, but that’s a technicality.

“No,” he says, sitting back down, offers Joshua his gummiest smile. “It was my mom.”

 

: : :

 

 _Saturday evening all cleared,_ he texts Minghao a day later, because he might have been telling the truth about _voices,_ but there is such a thing as too much in too little time. Texting is safer. Texting is black words on a white screen, straightforward, nothing about the color of Minghao’s smooth sentences grabbing Seokmin by the throat like a lover’s hand.

 

There is a car waiting for him as promised on the day of. A black Bentley this time, long and sleek and elegant. Seokmin feels a little underdressed in his designer jeans and light blue button-up. He recognizes the driver, which is reassuring. Minghao having one chauffeur per car would have been a little too overwhelming, he thinks.

Minghao is sitting in the backseat, brows furrowed, going through some sort of folder. He puts it down the second he realizes Seokmin is there, wipes away his frown to replace it with a tiny smile. He’s also in jeans, Seokmin notes, relieved.

Small talk is easy, but Seokmin has always been good at small talk. Still it’s nice to know even when talking about the weather or exchanging pleasantries about Seokmin’s job the connection doesn’t waver. Minghao’s presence is comfortable. Seokmin can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but _something_ about him feels familiar and safe. They’re attracted to each other, the air still heavy and electric with it, but there is more to Minghao’s magnetism. They just _click,_ Seokmin thinks. Irrationally, essentially.

 

They’re not going to a winery in the pure sense of the term, Minghao explains. His friend imports wines from Europe, mostly, so most of what they’ll be tasting today will not have been produced anywhere near local. He then says something about American wines that sounds like it’s a joke but that Seokmin just doesn’t have the references to get, so he just chuckles politely.

The building they pull up to is tall and imposing, all chrome and cement, a stylized W in solid inox above the automatic glass sliding doors.

“Minghao!” a short man greets them in the lobby before Seokmin can even really see what the insides look like. He notices the receptionist behind the desk, observing them curiously. Behind her large screens play a muted ad where some white lady is pouring rosé into a shiny glass.

Minghao and the guy bow, so Seokmin puts away the hand he was ready to extend and bows too. Then Minghao says something in what Seokmin assumes to be Mandarin, and his friend replies in the same language but twice as fast, which is when Seokmin realizes it’s actually Cantonese.

“DK Lee,” the man finally turns to him, a wide grin on his face. He’s wearing an atrocious patterned shirt that somehow fits him perfectly. “My sister loves your movie.”

“Uh,” Seokmin says very intelligently, “Thank you?”

The man laughs. “My name is Yangyang. This is my company.”

 _Yeah, I figured,_ Seokmin almost says. He catches it right before it gets out. “So nice to meet you,” he flashes his teeth instead. “Minghao tells me you’re the man to ring if one wants a good European vintage.”

Yes, he learned wine vocabulary for this. Sue him.

“Indeed,” Yangyang nods, satisfied. Minghao looks at Seokmin, spark in his eye. “Minghao tells _me_ my job today is finding you a wine you wouldn’t mind drinking.”

Seokmin rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not like I hate wine,” he defends himself.

“No, I get it,” Yangyang says. “You have not had really good wine yet. Allow me to change that.”

He guides them to the main elevator. It’s strange seeing Minghao take a back seat during what Seokmin knows to be a date. It’s a bold move, he supposes, or a dumb one. He’s still not sure.

Everything around them is so white and pristine it looks much more like a lab than the HQ of a company that sells alcohol, but Seokmin’s job is looking pretty on camera, so he shouldn’t be speaking about appearances. The room they enter has a long oval white table in the middle and three bottles on a metallic tray right at the center of it.

“Sparkling first,” Yangyang announces. “There is an order to these things.”

“Okay,” Seokmin says, “When I said I didn’t like wine I obviously didn’t mean Champagne. Champagne is great.”

“There is no Champagne here,” Minghao tells him. “I can buy you a bottle of Moët anytime. This,” he points to the first bottle, “Is a Crémant d’Alsace.”

“Very good,” Yangyang confirms. “The next one is Cava, from the Codorníu winery in Catalonia. The last one is another Crémant, from Bourgogne this time.”

He pours two half-flutes of the Crémant d’Alsace first. It’s a pretty light pink, almost coral, bubbling up nicely. As it touches Seokmin’s tongue it seems to be simultaneously sweet and salty, buzzing.

“It tastes kind of like Champagne,” he furrows his brows.

“Don’t let names fool you,” Yangyang shakes his head. “A good Crémant is much better than a mediocre Champagne. The only thing Champagne truly means is that the wine was made in that specific region of France.”

The Spanish one is nice too, surprisingly subtle for a bubbly. It’s the Bourgogne that truly steals Seokmin’s heart.

“Oh,” he exclaims, “That is _so_ good.”

“It’s drier, because it’s a white,” Yangyang informs him. “I’m glad you like that, that’s all our next room is gonna be.”

The next room is indeed a whole row of white wines, this time still as sea waters. Chardonnay, Sauvignon, Gewurztraminer, Riesling, Alvarinho; it’s a miracle Seokmin’s brain retains any of the names. He barely takes a sip of each, but that is a _lot_ of wine nonetheless.

Minghao looks like an excited toddler on his way to an amusement park when they finally get to the reds. Seokmin is happy about that, because he’s definitely tipsy by that point and Minghao still appears vaguely sober. They start with a French Cabernet, the winery’s name vaguely familiar even to Seokmin, which means the price tag is most likely exorbitant. Then it’s a Merlot, this one from Chile. Then a Xinomavro, a Greek wine Yangyang describes as acidic, warning Seokmin it’s an acquired taste. But it reminds Seokmin of dark fruit, of the richness of leather. It might be the only red he genuinely likes so far.

Minghao scrunches up his nose. “Can you take out a good Syrah? Wait, no, a Malbec first.”

“Smart choice,” Yangyang says, and he selects two bottles from the row on the table.

“Mmh,” Minghao sighs. “This is so nice. Seokmin has been grimacing, just pour him some Syrah.”

“Why can’t I have this one?” Seokmin pouts, semi-serious.

“You can have whatever you want,” Minghao says fondly. He gives Seokmin his own glass where there is still some Malbec. “Here, taste.”

“Well,” Seokmin says, licking his lips. “It’s not _awful._ ”

Minghao laughs, shakes his head. “I’m not saying anything.” He takes the empty glass and replaces it with a new one. Seokmin guesses it’s the famed Syrah.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he giggles after his first gulp, the thought only now occurring to him. Warmth spreads pleasantly through his skeleton, slow and steady. Minghao was right, this one is much better.

“No,” Minghao says, suddenly serious, staring directly into his eyes. “Never.”

He wraps a hand around Seokmin’s forearm as they walk to the next room, thumb rubbing soft circles on the inside of his wrist.

“I’m glad you convinced me to come,” Seokmin whispers, leaning into him. “This isn’t half bad.”

“The wine?” Minghao smiles, knowing.

“The wine,” Seokmin nods. He lets a beat pass before he _has_ to say it, even though they both knew he was joking. “The date, too.”

“Ah,” Minghao’s smirk grows much wider, “So we are going on dates? It’s a thing we do?”

“You are insufferable, I take it back.”

They’re both laughing. Yangyang turns to look at them, and he has that _look._ Seokmin can’t describe it, it’s just— _that look._

It’s just the third time they’re out together. Even three is generous, objectively it’s _two._ He likes Minghao _so_ much. It’s a little bit like wine—sweet, heady. It got to his head so fast. It’s making him dizzy.

Infatuation, he thinks. Crémant de Bourgogne.

 

: : :

 

In front of Seokmin’s building Minghao politely says goodbye, body angled towards his car, ready to flee. There is a nervousness to his expression, to the way his fingers drum against his side, close into a fist then open up again, like a flexing exercise.

“You don’t want to come up?” Seokmin asks, tilting his head to the side. “It’s not as good as your view, but it’s pretty nice anyway.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Minghao shakes his head. He pushes Seokmin under the alcove so that they’re hidden from prying eyes, kisses his nose. “You’re drunk. I’m not going to fuck you.”

The word is raw, vulgar. The tone is gentle, like a cushion for Seokmin to fall onto.

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Seokmin protests, almost whining. Minghao is so close now, body heat broadcasting, enticing. Seokmin wants to touch him.

“You’re a menace,” Minghao chuckles when he slides a palm along Minghao’s jaw, cupping his cheek.

“Just come upstairs,” Seokmin insists, tugging at his lapel. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, I swear. I just don’t want you to go yet.” And wow, maybe he is that drunk after all.

“Baby…” Minghao lets out a regretful sigh. “You know I want to.”

“Then stop overthinking things,” Seokmin raises both eyebrows. He turns around, dishes his keys from his pocket. It takes him two tries to insert them in the lock.

“Okay,” Minghao says. “I’ll just—I’ll walk you upstairs. To your door.”

“Okay,” Seokmin repeats, crooked smile. He likes chipping away Minghao’s resolve. He likes the challenge. He likes the game.

 

: : :

 

He realizes he didn’t plan for anyone to come back with him the second he opens the door to his apartment. There are dishes in the sink and throw pillows on the carpet in the living room and empty takeout containers on the coffee table. His bed is unmade, but Minghao said he wouldn’t touch him, so Seokmin supposes that doesn’t matter.

Minghao stays on the threshold, three quarters of himself out the door, just looking in.

“This is where we say goodnight.”

“Come inside,” Seokmin cajoles, running a hand up his forearm. “It’s messy and badly decorated. This is what you’re getting into, cards on the table and all that.”

Minghao’s lips stretch into a grin, endeared. “I know what I’m getting into.”

Seokmin’s heart tha-thumps, drum-like, a little irregular. Minghao lets himself be pulled inside the flat. Seokmin doesn’t let him go once the door is shut.

The space between them tastes like a prelude. A few inches of nothing, close enough to share air. Minghao allows the kiss, Seokmin’s hands now in his hair. It’s slow and comfortable, Minghao holding him by the waist, Seokmin leading the show. In his intoxicated state everything is reduced to the parts of his body where they are touching.

“So, no grand tour?” Minghao murmurs against his lips, smirking.

“Here is the living room,” Seokmin snorts, not pulling away. “I pass out on this couch regularly.”

Minghao nods solemnly. “An important landmark.”

“I think we should relocate to it, actually,” Seokmin tries.

Minghao chews on his bottom lip for a second, pensive. “You sit down, tell me where I can get a glass of water.”

“The kitchen is, like, behind you. First cupboard on your left. Hope you drink tap water because that’s all we serve here.”

Minghao shakes his head, amused. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

He comes back with a glass for Seokmin that Seokmin accepts gratefully. It’s easy, then, to curl up against his side. Minghao is warm and solid and he smells like orange tree flowers.

 _I’ll close my eyes just for a second,_ he tells himself.

It’s one of these nightmares that are just one long free fall that jerks him back awake. At some point he apparently slid down the couch so that his cheek would be resting on Minghao’s thigh. Minghao, who was apparently petting his hair all this time, is looking down at him.

“You’re still here,” Seokmin croaks out.

“Well, yeah,” Minghao huffs. “I figured it would be a little creepy if I like, literally put you to bed.”

“It would be,” Seokmin agrees, still not entirely conscious. The inside of his mouth feels like cotton. Minghao leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cupid’s bow. “I’m sorry I kept you,” Seokmin grimaces. “What time is it?”

“Around one in the morning, I think. Don’t worry about it. I’ll leave you now, though, if that’s okay.”

Seokmin doesn’t know what possesses him to say the following. He puts it down to the alcohol and the exhaustion, although by now the drunkness has long faded. “No,” he whines, turning his face to nose at Minghao’s stomach, voice muffled. “Don’t go, it’s late. You can sleep here. Just—just sleep. You’ve seen me naked, we can share a double bed.”

Minghao stays silent, hand stilling in Seokmin’s hair for a long worrying minute.

Then he exhales, “Okay. Yeah, sure. Okay.”

Happiness floods through Seokmin’s bones like liquid gold, hot and fast. In the middle of the night he’s just gleeful he gets to keep Minghao a little longer. In the morning, he can already vaguely picture himself freaking out over how much he likes this man he barely knows.

 

In his bedroom Seokmin goes to the window to lower the blinds while Minghao uses the bathroom.

“Minghao, your car is still in the street?”

He hears the toilet flush, then water run. Minghao’s head peeks out from the door.

“You were expecting it not to be?”

“I mean,” Seokmin frowns, “You’re staying here, right? Shouldn’t you send your driver home?”

“Mingyu goes where I go,” Minghao shrugs. “It’s in his job description.”

This, Seokmin realizes, ten thousand times more than hundred dollar sushi, is where he feels the divide between them.

“Doesn’t he need to sleep? Can he at least, I don’t know, stay on the couch?”

“You’re cute,” Minghao smiles. “No, and he would be offended if you offered. Don’t worry about it, Seokmin. This is just how it goes.”

“Well,” Seokmin frowns, “Now I feel guilty for asking you to stay.”

“Don’t,” Minghao says, unbuttoning his dress shirt. “I promise, the overtime pay is worth it.” He adds a wink to that last part. Seokmin vaguely feels like a class traitor.

“I’m, uh, going to brush my teeth then,” he says, not knowing how to close this particular conversation. “Make yourself at home.”

Minghao does. When Seokmin comes back out of the bathroom, breath fresh and minty, finally not reminiscent of a dying animal, he’s already in bed, hands crossed behind his head. Seokmin blinks away the domesticity of that vision.

“Come to bed,” Minghao tells him, which does not help.

 

It’s strange, having to share the mattress with someone. It’s the first time he brings someone home in this apartment. He was sleepy on the couch, but now he is entirely too aware of Minghao beside him, and all the ways in which they are not touching.

“Minghao,” he calls quietly. The night is black but not silent. Outside the world never stops turning, especially not in this city.

Minghao understands. The mattress sinks a little when he turns. “Come here.”

They rearrange themselves so that Seokmin’s back is slotted against Minghao’s chest.

It’s that unnamable feeling again. Just like the first night. Minghao does _something_ and Seokmin’s stomach twists itself into a gordian knot. It wraps itself around him, heavy. The closest he comes to describing it is _longing._

But they’re as close as can be, literally molded against each other. What could he be longing for?

“I can hear your mind running,” Minghao whispers, lips cold against the back of his neck. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep. I’ll be there when you wake up.”

 

: : :

 

Minghao keeps his promise.

Seokmin opens his eyes. In his sleep he detached himself from his bed partner’s embrace, drifted to the very edge of the bed. He left the duvet behind, too, standing between them like a fortress. A quick look at his alarm clock tells him it’s barely five in the morning. He honestly expected to have a headache by now, but his cranium is surprisingly light and pain-free.

He rolls to his side so he can look at Minghao. Like this, eyes closed, face serene, he looks younger. Seokmin never thought he would be the type of guy to watch someone sleep, but now he can kind of see the appeal. It’s intense, observing someone when they can stare right back. Like this it’s free, devoid of intent. He can just—notice. How present Minghao’s nose is, but at the same time _not really,_ because it blends in perfectly with the rest of his face. His eyelashes are pretty, which Seokmin is sure is a weird compliment to give, but it isn’t like someone is listening to his thoughts.

Minghao stirs in his sleep. Immediately the lines of his face tense up, rigidify, his organism fighting with its biological clock. He grunts, dragging the back of his hand down his nose and mouth, still mostly asleep.

And it’s there, again. It settles at the pit of Seokmin’s gut like a stone at the bottom of a lake. The almost-longing.

The sun is rising, rays filtering through the half-shut blinds. Minghao makes a soft, very small sound. It’s Sunday, and Seokmin doesn’t have anything to do until much later in the afternoon.

He closes his eyes, slides back under the covers. Minghao reaches for him blindly, tugs him closer.

They fit.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! as always, your comments are food for the angry monster that lives inside my brain and makes me write things. see you soon :D

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this/want to see more of it please consider leaving a comment *Q* your feedback is what keeps me going <3  
> you can also find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/yifanapologist)!!


End file.
